Harry Potter is Dead
by flight of the mockinjay
Summary: "Harry Potter is dead." There was a long time that Draco had believed the famous Harry Potter to the invincible. No matter how many times he got pushed down the boy just stood back up, brushed away the dirt and walked on. Draco had always admired that about Harry, his resilience. But Harry wasn't resilient anymore; Harry Potter was dead. *Oneshot*


"Harry Potter is dead."

The words rock through Draco, shaking him to his very core. _Dead? _It's not possible. Harry, the Boy Who Lived, the Saviour of the Wizarding World. Memories flash behind his eyelids in an unwelcome tableau, drowning him in a tsunami of agony; little first year Harry rocks through his memory, untamed hair flying about and broken glasses sitting atop the bridge of his nose back in Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions; Harry accusing him of being scared in the Forbidden Forest that one time they had detention together; Harry hissing to that snake while Draco stood dumbfounded, overwhelmed with awe; Harry on the back of that hippogriff, obviously terrified, but slowly growing to love the feeling of flying, feeling more natural in the air than he ever could on the ground; Harry's face when he was called out to be in the TwiWizard Tournament, the shock and fear that overwhelmed him seeping into his skin and of course ever single first time Harry would walk back into the Great Hall after a near death experience.

There was a long time that Draco had believed the famous Harry Potter to the invincible. No matter how many times he got pushed down the boy just stood back up, brushed away the dirt and walked on. Draco had always admired that about Harry, his resilience.

But Harry wasn't resilient anymore; Harry Potter was _dead._

The world rocks beneath him and he finds himself on the floor. His legs must have given way, but he doesn't even notice. All he can see is the pile of robes and hair held in that blubbering giant's arms. Screams fill the air around him but he has no idea who they belong to and he honestly couldn't care.

Draco feels as if his heart has just been ripped out of his chest, like his lungs have shattered and he's no longer breathing. Drops of water slide down his cheeks and it takes him a moment to realize they're his tears; that he's _crying _over Harry sodding Potter!

Draco tries to force himself to feel anger, to feel ashamed by his humiliating reaction (_Malfoys do _not _cry in public, _he hears his father echo in the back of his mind.) but try as he might, he simply can't. All he can feel is the grief, the overwhelming urge to scream. He feels like gripping his hair and ripping it out, slicing away all of his skin, stabbing himself in the chest… _Anything _to distract himself from this pain. _Nothing could be worse than this, _a numb voice whispers.

His shoulders shudder and fall beneath him. He kneels in the mud on all fours, helplessly watching the giant walk closer, the lump that he knows to be Harry still in his arms. A hard swelling forms in Draco's throat, choking off sobs he hadn't known he was making.

_Harry Potter is dead._

_No, no, no, no, _NO, the conscious part of Draco's mind protests, screaming. If Harry was really dead he'd know, he'd be able to feel it. How he knows remains an unanswered question, Harry was just his school-time enemy, nothing more, but he'd just _know._

Harry Potter can't be dead.

_Harry Potter is dead._

"I'm sorry," He hears a pathetic voice whimper, one that sounds shockingly like his own. The voice repeats itself like a broken record, occasionally obstructed by a whimper of a choke. He wishes that whoever it is would shut up so he could just see his Harry, so he could just prove to himself that he's _not dead._

_His Harry? _When did Harry start being _his _Harry? He thinks back to their time over the years, starting at Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Harry had been so scared, so shy. He had reminded him of a kitten, bewildered by the bright, terrifying world. _That's _the moment he became his Harry; the first time he saw him.

When Harry had denied his friendship, Draco hadn't thought he'd ever get over it; he didn't think he could ever be happy again without Harry Potter. He spent his entire Hogwarts life trying to win him back, attempting to get his attention; it never worked.

_Harry isn't dead._

The giant's sniveling wakes him from his internal monologue, his eyes rising to see the body held carefully in his arms. Harry's eyes are closed, his skin paler than Draco would have thought imaginable. His body is limp, and the small detached piece of Draco that refuses to admit that Harry is dead sympathizes over the obviously uncomfortable position. But right now Harry wouldn't care; Harry _couldn't _care.

Because Harry Potter is dead.

The realisation attacks him, making the pain worse than ever. He's sure he's going to die, that it's impossible to survive pain like this. Because he's in love with Harry Potter, undeniably and completely in love. And Harry will never know.

Some small part of Draco realises that the earlier voice pleading its apologies was his own. The same part also realises that he's chanting something new now.

"I love you."

But Harry Potter is too far gone to hear it.


End file.
